Sanctuary
by vands88
Summary: HouseCam. Cameron's having one hell of a week and naturally "habit had led her to the quiet of the hospital chapel", but she can't shake the memory of the last time she was there...with House.


**Title:** Sanctuary  
**Rating:** PG  
**Characters/Pairings:** House/Cameron  
**Genre:** Angst/Friendship/Romance  
**Word Count:** 960-ish  
**Summary:** Cameron's having one hell of a week and naturally "habit had led her to the quiet of the hospital chapel", but she can't shake the memory of the last time she was there...with House.

**A/N:**  
Not beta'd; all mistakes are mine.  
The idea for this fic came to me late one night and I practically had the entire thing written out in my head. Of course, I woke up the next morning and it all was gone. This is the best I could remember and it's not written to the best of my capabilities, blame my forgetfulness.  
Anyway, it was nice to write some House/Cam after all the experimenting I've been doing lately. Hope you folks enjoy it. :-)

* * *

The first time, Cameron had had an argument with Chase. 

Her blonde hair gently cascaded over her shoulders and skimmed the top of the pew as she gazed at the large stained-glass window in front of her. She had wanted to get away, and habit had led her to the quiet of the hospital chapel. There was something comforting about the silence, the peace, which seemed to identify the place of worship.

She sighed, and remembered the last time when she was here; with House beside her. He used to always know where to find her; she supposed that talent had been lost with her job as she hadn't seen him in days. She found it rather ironic that Chase had never had that gift to begin with. She couldn't even remember what they had argued about, probably over something stupid, it always was.

The door suddenly opened behind her, and she turned at the sudden noise. It was an elderly lady come to pray. Not House. She berated herself for even considering the possibility that he would come to find her, but as she turned back to stare vacantly at the large window, she swore she heard his unique pattern of cane and sneaker fading down the corridor.

---

The second time, she had killed a patient.

It was a young girl in a car accident; her name was Sara. Somehow the wrong drugs were administered and it was only after re-reading her chart that Cameron realised she wrote the script. No matter how many excuses she had tried to come up with – she was tired, she had another argument with Chase that morning, she had one more coffee than usual – she couldn't justify making such a stupid mistake.

She heard the door open, but was too lost in her thoughts to react to the noise. A tear silently rolled down her face as she remembered Sara's last moments. She was so young. Cameron closed her eyes and could almost hear the cane on the floor and smell of his aftershave, his brief reassurance that she did the right thing. But he was not coming, and she did not do the right thing.

She heard the door slam once more, and knew the unknown visitor had left. The chapel suddenly felt a lot colder.

---

The third time, her father had been taken into hospital.

A stroke. She never thought it would happen to him; not to someone so intelligent and happy and healthy. But it did. And Cameron found herself in the empty chapel once more; she could only manage two minutes of the deafening silence before the tears began to fall. She pulled her knees up to her chest on the cold wooden pew, and let the tears fall fast and heavy onto her scrubs.

She had broken up with Chase earlier that day. And had a meeting with the committee about Sara's death that afternoon. And now her father was ill. And she had broken her pager. And run out of cereal.

She needed him. She needed the hand on the shoulder and the comforting words. But he would never come.

Her throat became hoarse with the continuous crying but still she could not stop. She was so engrossed in her misery that she did not hear the distant sound of the chapel door opening. And the sound of him walking towards her.

It was only when he sat beside her that she groggily moved her head from resting on her knees and looked at her visitor. House.

Wordlessly, he awkwardly put his arm around her, allowing her to cry on his shoulder. He moved his hand in a calming motion on her back and before long she relaxed into him and the tension in his shoulders dissipated as he allowed himself to move closer.

"You're having one hell of a week." He stated in a hoarse whisper, one hand reaching to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

She smiled in relief, almost giggled at his blunt statement. "Yeah, guess I am."

The numbing silence of before was replaced with a comfortable one as he continued to comfort her. She let her last tears fall but did not move; afraid of losing the precious contact that she had been longing for.

"I saw you." He said.

She looked up at him inquisitively, her hand instinctively finding its way to his chest.

"Before, in here, twice. I even came in, I just couldn't..."

"I know." She interrupted with a smile. There were so many things she wanted to say to him, but they either said too much or were a cheesy line out of a 90s romantic comedy.

"Thank you." She finally decided on, reaching up to place a whisper of a kiss on his cheek.

Her eyes closed at the electricity that shot through her at the simple touch, her heart leaping in her chest at the unexpected feel of his fingers softly in her hair.

She pulled away to see his eyes fixed on hers, a hopeful sparkle in his eye and his hand running through her hair with an unusual delicacy. Her chest tightened in anticipation as he moved even closer towards her.

"I should go." He said suddenly, clearing his throat as he rapidly pulled away from her.

She tried not to let her disappointment show as he grabbed his cane from beside him and quickly stood up, limping down the small aisle as fast as possible.

He paused briefly as he reached the end of the pew, his back faced to her, cane bouncing on the floor in thought.

"You need a drink. I have scotch." A pause, "See you at 8."

She heard the door slam behind him.

* * *

For the record, it's unlikely that there will be more chapters or a sequel unless a plot bunny attacks me at 4 in the morning, holds me hostage, and forces me to write. And I like my sleep.

Comments and concrit are very welcome. :-)


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